Waiting
by homeric
Summary: Annie wonders where it all went wrong...


**Disclaimer: nothing you recognise belongs to me**

I wish someone had told me that sometimes it _is _you.  
You know, when you're watching the telly and there's all that horrible stuff happening to other people, but because you aren't there it isn't quite real?  
You can just change the channel and then there's some posh twits bickering about buying a house that doesn't have enough bathrooms and you forget about the stuff on the news.

Death isn't really real until it happens to you (and seriously getting pushed down the stairs by a nutcase fiancé is not the way I'd have chosen to go out. I was planning on passing away quietly in my bed, or I don't know, tragically dying in a fire rescuing nuns who had been trapped with orphans. Perhaps the orphans also had kittens in their pockets... I don't know. It would have been a bit more heroic or heroineic; is that even a word anyway?)  
On the plus side I'm glad that no-one told me that vampires and werewolves existed because then I might not have given Mitchell and George a chance. Mitchell doesn't sparkle and George keeps his shirt on most of the time, but they're still, you know, monsters. All we need is some kid with a scar on his head and a wand and we'd be a perfect quad... quid?... whatever it is when you get four emo undeadish/magic people together.

And just because you screw your life up doesn't mean that you have to screw your afterlife up too, right? I got my friends right at least.

Crap taste in men Annie, but good choice in friends. Go me.

Mitchell had a better death than I did. Well technically he's still sort of having his death, but you know what I mean. The whole war thing with blokes shooting at each other. That's like an action film only with a horror film added on the end and he can't turn it off when he wants to change it to a romantic comedy. But he tries, and he's kind. Dresses like a student, smoulders like a Victorian poet – writes like one too, albeit a crap one. The few times he's written anything other than a shopping list it usually ends up in the bin. Not that I've looked (well only a couple of times and they were by accident), and not that I'm any good at writing myself, but even I know that "globe" and "encroach" don't rhyme.

Come on, if you were trapped in our little house you'd have a nose around too.

George though...

He's all boxes.

Put the normal bloke in one. The werewolf in another. The fact that he's living with a ghost and a vampire in one too. He liked to think that he could do that once. Keep everything neat and tidy.

Turns out the box marked "normal life" had crappy sellotape and fell apart when he tried to put them all together though. At least there's Nina now. She can be a bit of a bitch (yeah, ha,ha, see what I did there?) but they're stuck with each other now, and at least they get to have really good, way too noisy sex.

The thing is that even if we pissed each other off at least we were, I don't know, the worlds weirdest family. Not something that I'd have chosen, but we worked.

A bit like that rug Owen bought from Ikea that I thought was horrible but when it was in the lounge sort of made the room fit together (not that the boys are rugs – although George can be a bit of a doormat occasionally).

It's weird how that goes. Seeing and at the same time not seeing what's right infront of you. I spent ages not noticing what Owen was and then was completely blind to Hugh.

Perhaps it's just me – is there such a thing as Selective Tosser Vision?  
Sitting in the Waiting Room, waiting for what happens next, I can't help wondering if ignorance really is bliss or just delaying the inevitable. I've got a ticket with a number in my pocket and the lady (I think it's a lady, but sometimes her-his? Face shifts and it's hard to tell) at the desk at the front of the waiting room calls numbers out. None of the people who go through the door come back, and no-one speaks.

I wonder what will happen when my number is called, and I wonder what is happening to my boys.

Shouldn't something be happening?

Hellfire? Angels singing? Dante or Michaelangelo?

Not just a quiet nothing.

Turns out Hell isn't what happens to you but what doesn't.

And there are a lot of numbers to go before they get to mine.


End file.
